


The Dangerous Captives

by JadeyKins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, kidnap, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeyKins/pseuds/JadeyKins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the help of Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade closes the case on the 'Red Hand' murder. Unfortunately, the Murphy Boys haven't taken kindly to the arrests or attention on their gang. They arrange for a little payback. Can Lestrade and the others escape? Or will they have to wait for rescue?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with solving a high profile case was not finding the evidence that’d convict the bad guy. DI Greg Lestrade actually enjoyed that part of the job immensely. No, the problem was what had to happen afterwards. When the higher ups demanded that he host a press conference. ‘Good for moral’ they claimed. ‘Fantastic for their image.’ 

Greg was becoming quickly convinced that his bosses never paid attention to how these things went, particularly when Sherlock Holmes assisted the case.

And in the case of the Red Hand Murder—coined by the press before Dr. John Watson had a chance—Greg had the unfortunate pleasure of having both a high profile organized crime case and the world’s most famous unlicensed detective.

The press filled the seats and crammed into the aisles in between the rows. Seemed like more and more packed in each time Sherlock bothered to grace them with his presence. Greg had noticed that was happening more often too, but whether that was John’s influence or Sherlock’s need to gloat his intelligence, he wasn’t sure. The reporters finished with Greg and moved on to demanding answers out of Sherlock. 

Grateful for the break—though simultaneously gritting his teeth for the inevitable insult—Greg relaxed in his seat. He tuned Sherlock out, setting his mind to pay attention for any drastic mood shifts of the room, and fought to keep a blank expression. Fewer photos of him showed up in the papers if he was boring enough.

God, he hated these things.

Sgt. Sally Donavon fidgeted in her seat and Greg glanced a fraction closer to her direction to see her scowl. The mood of the whole room was changing. Greg brought his attention back to Sherlock’s speech.

“Therefore, the killer had to…” 

Fantastic. Sherlock was giving out all the details of the case. Again. He’d been warned about procedure and tainting jury pools. Greg cleared his throat loud enough for the first two rows to look at him and said, “All right. Think that’s enough for today.”

“But I haven’t explained—” Sherlock began.

John motioned in that quick way that Sherlock need to quiet. Thankfully, Sherlock obeyed.

The press packed away their cameras and recorders. In the flurry of movement, Greg went out to the hall. 

Donavon, Sherlock—and therefore John—were fast on his heels. Sherlock stepped out in front. His hands were shoved deep in those coat pockets as per usual and the damn coat actually whirled around as he spun back towards Greg. “Why do you want me at these things if you insist on cutting me off?”

“Because it does good to show you off,” Greg huffed. “And I only interrupted you because you were dangerously close to angering an entire room of press.”

“They were asking the wrong questions.” Sherlock had that frown, the one that said he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

Greg hated that frown almost more than the pressroom.

John took in a big breath and said, “I don’t think anyone’s accused the press of being exceptionally bright, Sherlock.”

While certain members of the police force loathed John’s involvement in cases, Greg found himself more and more thankful for Sherlock’s roommate and partner. John effortlessly diffused Sherlock’s shittier remarks constantly. Handling Sherlock at the end of a case had become so much simpler. Greg ought to gift John a fine bottle of something for Christmas this year.

John’s remark mollified Sherlock enough that the lanky amateur detective merely squinted at Greg in that I’m-pleased-to-have-finished-and-can’t-wait-to-do-it-again away. Pleased was probably a stretch of Greg’s imagination, but considering he could practically feel Donavon’s disapproval, he’d allow himself the pretense. Mostly because, soon as the duo were off, he’d be getting an earful from his subordinate.

“We should get going,” John said. “Before the press have set up outside.”

“They already have,” Sherlock said dryly. “We’ll head out the back exit. Unless you want them to have a good look at us, Lestrade? Will that satisfy your superiors?”

“Take whatever way out of the building you want. Just go,” Greg replied. So much for wanting them to stick around. Sherlock’s attitude had gotten on his nerves again. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Of course, Inspector,” Sherlock said. “Tell my brother I said hello.”

Greg was left staring after Sherlock. How had he known about _that_? Why was he bothering to wonder? Both Holmes brothers had that keen sense of perception. Had a way of making him feel like a moron at least once during a conversation. Then again, neither Holmes seemed to know how much bread and milk cost at the grocer, so he’d relish in his knowledge base.

However, soon as John and Sherlock were out of earshot, Donavon was up on his shoulder—like some crazy conscience creature out of a cartoon. Now, whether angel or devil was yet to be seen. 

“Why do you put up with him?” Donavon demanded.

“Because he’s a brilliant man,” Greg said.

“And we have a brilliant team of detectives,” Donavon snapped. “We don’t need Sherlock Holmes mucking through every detail of every case and making us look like idiots!”

“I gave you credit, about the fingerprint find. No one had thought about looking there,” Greg said defensively. 

“Well, I’m glad I got to do that before the great Sherlock Holmes had a chance to find it.” Donavon crossed her arms over her chest. “We didn’t need him on this one. We were on the right path.”

“Excuse me, did you want the Murphy Boys to keep covering up their latest enterprise? Sherlock found them faster than we could.”

“We never get to know that. You keep bringing him in on the ‘important’ cases. These are cases that are supposed to make our careers! And you hand them off to a sociopath that you’re hoping to keep preoccupied!”

“Preoccupied from what?” Greg asked.

Donavon raised her chin. “From deciding that experimenting on corpses isn’t cutting it anymore. You know he has a blog article about the eighty-three different kinds of marks left by various riding crops and canes?”

Greg raised both brows in surprise. “I didn’t. How do you know that?”

“Know your enemy.”

“Sherlock Holmes isn’t the enemy.”

“Yet.” Donavon let that word punctuate the conversation as she walked away.

Oh, this day was just going to be hell.

 

*** 

Greg lumbered up the steps to his flat and fumbled with his keys. His back was aching from the stupid new office chair that was, in fact, supposed to prevent this kind of thing. While he flipped the key ring around to the right one, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t bother looking at it and answered. “What?”

“Back trouble? I have a technique for that,” Mycroft purred on the other end.

Greg paused, closed his eyes, and sighed. “You get that from the tone of voice or from a camera?”

“Word choice and deduction. You were in that pressroom an awful long time today and you only use ‘what’ as a greeting when you’re in pain.”

“Of course. Should’ve known that.”

“Well…” And Mycroft let the words _yes, you should have_ hang on the air.

“I think,” Greg said as he opened the door to his flat, “I may have had enough Holmes brothers for one day.”

“I was calling to genuinely find out how you are,” Mycroft said and he actually sounded a bit wounded.

Greg flipped on the light. His apartment was Spartan in its comforts, excluding the bed, which was one of those odd memory foam things. Both the ex-wife and Mycroft had insisted that a new bed would ease the back pain and the snoring. While useful advice, Greg hadn’t bought anything new. Couldn’t afford to. However, he’d come home one day and found the bed there all the same. Mycroft had helped break-in the unexpected present. “You can already tell, can’t you? I’m frustrated by the newest case. Annoyed at your brother for pissing off my detective. And pissed at the detective for being both right and as condescending as your brother. I’d like to see how Donavon would handle her own squad.”

“I’ve tried,” Mycroft said. “She’s loyal to you.”

Greg tossed the keys into a bowl on the coffee table and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “And she wants my job.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Of course I have. I’m not a complete idiot.” Greg threw his jacket over the back of the sofa.

The trash had been taken out. Even a glance at the bedroom showed Greg that the bed had been made fresh and the clothes had been picked up. He asked, “Has your maid service been in again?”

“Well, it _is_ Wednesday.”

“Told you, I can clean up after myself.”

“And yet you don’t.”

“Maybe I like getting under your skin,” Greg said. “Lord knows you crawl under mine enough.”

“I’m trying to discern if that was an insult or a flirtation.”

“You mean I stumped you? Ha!”

“Maybe I’m attempting to soothe your ego.”

“Get over here and soothe a few other things.”

“When I have the time,” Mycroft said slowly.

Greg chuckled. “So that’s, what, an hour?”

“More like two.”

“Fine, then. But bring dinner. I’m starving.”

“And lazy, it seems.”

“I’m a terrible cook.”

“I _knoooow_ ,” Mycroft said with a snort. “I’ll bring Thai.”

Greg yanked off the tie and threw it into a corner of the bedroom. Next came the pull on his dress shirt. “Just bring something that won’t kill my bowels tomorrow.”

“I suppose that would be rude given what will happen to the end of your digestive tract.”

“You know,” Greg said, “other than your brother, you’re the only one I know that can make anal sex less appealing.”

“Well, there is someone in a position behind me.”

Greg snorted and laughed. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“What, the truth?”

“Any mention of your brother in a sexual situation. That is not a visual image I need. Ever.”

“Because you imagine that he’s doing it with that doctor friend of his?”

“Now you’re antagonizing me.”

“I don’t possibly know what you mean.”

More laughter erupted from Greg. He sauntered towards the bathroom. “Seriously, though, are they together or not?”

“Well at the moment, they’re currently on their way to 221b. I’d wager they’re ‘together.’” 

“There’s a bet among my team. They’ve been looking for proof.”

“I will neither confirm or deny, since I have the distinct feeling you’ve also put money into this contest.”

Greg shrugged. “I may have a bit.”

“Then you’ll have to use those detective skills.”

“As you and your brother have pointed out, my skills are not so fantastic.”

“I’ve never said that,” Mycroft suddenly said sharply. “I may have insulted the intelligence of many people, but never _yours_. If I didn’t believe you competent, I wouldn’t allow Sherlock to work with you.”

“Ah, see, there’s that ‘competent’ again.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s like saying ‘oh, I suppose you don’t trip over yourself, so that works.’”

“That’s not how I mean it.”

“And what’s the difference?”

“True competency means you excel at your work. No one should have your position without the sufficient brains and determination. If I wanted to insult you, I’d say you were _adequate_.”

Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. Mycroft and Sherlock shared that peculiar sense of word choice. “Sorry for jumping to the conclusion.”

“It’s all right. My brother has a way of making our distinctive speech patterns seem entirely insulting.”

“Yeah, you near mind-reading is not my favorite trick outside of the bed.”

Mycroft laughed. “Unfortunately, I need to get back to work.”

“Right. I’ll see you soon.”

Greg hung up the phone and tossed it onto the bed. After that much time at work, he needed a shower. He’d shave, except he’d have more fun torturing Mycroft with the stubble. 

As he slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, the front door opened. It was a quiet sound, one he might’ve missed if he wasn’t so used to picking up details. “Thought you weren’t coming until later.” Greg headed out into the living room. “What’d you bring?”

Mycroft was not in the living room. Greg stumbled in and found three black-clad masked strangers sneaking into his apartment. All four men froze for a second. Obviously, the others had intended on sneaking up on him or hadn’t counted on him being home. For sure, Greg had not been expecting these visitors.

As the first intruder took a step, Greg’s mind recovered from shock. He backpeddled to the bedroom. That door would force them to come one at a time. Too bad the door didn’t have a lock, otherwise he’d buy himself a second to grab the mobile off his dresser. Those were fantasy thoughts. Greg got into the bedroom with only a second to try and slam the door shut. 

The door bounced off the first man chasing him. At least it smacked into him pretty hard.

What followed was a mess of fists, kicks, and a roundhouse blow to the solar plexus. Greg fell back against the bed, bounced and landed on hands and knees on the floor, and all the while he tried to suck in a breath. The masked men had a heavy cotton bag over his head and cuffed his wrists behind his back. 

 _At least they’re bloody professionals_. Greg spared that one thought before one of the goons struck hard enough to knock him out.


	2. Chapter 2

“All I’m saying,” John insisted, “is that you could be a bit more polite.”

“I was polite,” Sherlock murmured as he gazed out the taxicab window. That building was having a renovation done, but the owners didn’t realize that their contractors were using sub-par construction materials. That woman over there needed to do her washing, but her boyfriend had just broken up with her. John’s aftershave was running low or he would have more fragrance on him. So many details that no one bothered looking for and when one reporter asked the right question, John had motioned for silence. 

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John asked with that petulant frown which meant they both knew the answer was ‘No.’

Sherlock heaved a sigh and scowled at him. He could make an educated guess at where the conversation had gone. “People don’t like being told they’re stupid. So I’ve gathered, thank you.”

“Actually, I was asking what you wanted to do about dinner.”

“Oh.”

A heavy silent beat went on between them before John cleared his throat and facial expression. A more pleasant smile eased onto him—that small quirk of the lip that Sherlock adored seeing in the bedroom more than out in public—and he said, “So, about dinner. Did you want to go out?”

“I’m not in the mood.” Sherlock went back to staring out the window for a second, realized that John might take that statement in an offensive manner, and quickly looked back to meet John’s gaze with a tiny smile. “I’d prefer staying in. Very in.”

John brightened—all the way from the nervous tick in his hand to the sparkle in his eye—and said quite confidently, “Then I’ll run down to the shop and pick something up.”

“No cooking?”

“I’d rather Mrs. Hudson didn’t have a reason to come up.”

Sherlock grinned. “Then you better not shout this time.”

“As I recall—” John cleared his throat and shot the driver a nervous glance before leaning in and dropping his voice. “—that was your fault.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “it was an experiment. Now we know what will make her run up the stairs.”

“Right, but let’s not _do that again_.”

Sherlock chuckled. John was endearing when he was emphatic.

After a short ride, though longer than it should have been by three minutes if the driver had remembered the traffic patterns for this time of evening, the cab pulled over in front of 221b. Sherlock stepped out of the cab and left the door wide open for John.

“I’ll ride down the rest of the way. Save some time getting there and back,” John said.

 _Not by much_. Sherlock kept the thought in his mind—proving to himself if no one else that he could manage ‘polite’—and swung the door shut. He spared a grin for John as the cab pulled away again.

 Sherlock swept into 221 with the usual gusto. Door locked, no extra sounds from Mrs. Hudson’s quarters so she must be out, his footsteps nearly echoing as he rushed up the stairs. All the details right in place, except—

Except that small lingering odor of tobacco on the staircase. He hesitated a fraction of a second. Marlboro Gold. Lestrade’s brand, but the detective hadn’t smelled of smoke earlier today. Besides, the detective was rarely so silent. Clients typically produced more sweat and weren’t likely to be left alone while waiting by Mrs. Hudson. She had clearly stepped out.

An attack then. By someone careful, but not careful enough. Sherlock smirked and loosened his shoulders. The foe had already lost the element of surprise.

Sherlock breezed up the rest of the steps. The most obvious hiding spot would be the kitchen. Not wasting a step, he spun left and swept an arm up and over. Sure enough, he had a man’s arm pinned against the wall in a second. The man was telegraphing his moves too easily and Sherlock blocked the next three with quick motions. He deflected the kick to the stomach, but still wound up taking a knee to the side. They were moving about the apartment, and Sherlock had his back to the windows.

If he had considered the second most likely hiding spot, he might have refrained from doing so. He left his back exposed and he barely heard the swish of fabric. Someone with a heavy left step—probably walked with a limp—moved out into the open. Two quick puffs of air and a sharp needle protruded from Sherlock’s arm. Tranquilizer. Heavy dosage to make his eyes droop this quickly.

He had enough time to chastise himself three times for the sheer negligence in details before collapsing on the carpet.

 

***

 

Bottle of red wine, some light snacks for later—oh why was John bothering with _snacks_. He was about as likely to have a chance to eat them as having the Queen drop by for tea. Actually, considering certain scandals that had happened, the Queen calling on Sherlock Holmes was not out of the realm of possibility. Strange, really, how _nothing_ was out of the possible realm around Sherlock. Still, no snacks. Wine, something simple to eat, and then getting Sherlock into bed quickly before a case walked through the door.

A few simple things, he reminded himself, otherwise he’d spend far too long considering everything they needed for the flat and Sherlock would be off in his own world—which was worse than a case. John hurried through the line and bought just the wine. Dinner from the local Chinese place would be ready for a pick up now.

A few quick moments later, John was leaving the Chinese restaurant with another plastic bag in tow. He was going to have to consider ordering somewhere else every once in a while. That waiter in the restaurant was getting too big a grin on his face when John walked through the door. Fame had its consequences.

Traffic buzzed past on the road and John paid no attention to it. He had to wind his way around the foot traffic that occasionally forgot to see him. 221b wasn’t far to go and he turned around the corner to get back onto Baker Street. 

The van barely slowed, but it was enough to trigger John’s ‘that’s odd’ sense. Enough to make him glance to his left. The van door slid open and John swung the bags out at the man looming out towards him. For a brief second, he wondered if this was another of Mycroft’s games—only those were always invitations and not hands reaching out from darkness. 

Fried rice and noodles erupted over the floor of the van and the would-be kidnapper reeled back. John smirked at the triumph.

Except the triumph was extremely temporary. Someone came up behind him and shoved _hard_. John half landed on the van and he went to push his way out. Before he’d gained leverage, the inside man smacked the back of his head. Everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Breathing was harder than it should be. Greg nearly panicked—he did jolt up only to have metal bite into his wrists and to slam back into a chair. Despite opening his eyes, the world was dark.

Something was covering his face and it was impairing his breath a bit too. _Oh good, not just me then. And yet, very bad. Didn’t imagine that fight._

The attack in the apartment came back in flashes and then living color. Someone had broken in. Professional thugs. They’d put him down pretty easily because he’d been so off guard. And of course he’d been at ease, he was in his bloody apartment. Man should feel safe in his own space.

_None of that matters right now, now does it?_

Important to start putting the details together. He was still alive. He was bound, but not too uncomfortably and the attackers had gone to great length to hide their faces. Who’d kidnap him? What purpose? No one would be stupid enough to believe that Scotland Yard would go making any deals for him. He was broke, the ex-wife was broke, and his parents were deceased, so no one to get money from.

 _Mycroft Holmes._ Seriously? Was someone so idiotic they thought they could coerce _Mycroft Holmes_ into anything? He and Mycroft had been careful about their relationship because of this possibility—though anyone paying close attention could have figured things out. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could deduce, especially since other people were willing to do surveillance.

He heard the clank of metal on metal and a gruff groan. “Who’s there?”

Only more clanking and groaning. The shuffle of a chair against concrete. Had to be another captive. So Greg wasn’t the only one taken. The whole Mycroft theory could be wrong. What did multiple captives mean? Someone with a grudge. Someone who had no problem terrorizing their victims before killing them.

“Murphy boys,” Greg growled.

The black cotton hood came off his head suddenly and Greg was left blinking in the blinding light they’d focused on his face. “And they say you’re the moron of the group,” Ryan Murphy said as stepped back. “Wonder how long it’ll take the genius to figure it out.”

Greg glanced around, but he couldn’t see much beyond the light. Lots of concrete, lots of distant walls. Mirror on one pretty close that took up much of the space. He saw the arm of someone if he craned his neck far enough—looked like John’s jacket.

 _Keep a calm head_. “So this is revenge then,” Greg said. “We nab your boy, you grab us.”

“This is about a little more than that. You’ve injured our pride as a group, sure,” Murphy said. “You’ve pissed off the big man more.”

Greg frowned. “Thought that was you.”

Murphy slapped his shoulder and laughed. “And that’s where you’re the moron.”

Greg glared at him. He walked with Sherlock Holmes and slept with Mycroft—two of the brightest minds on the planet. No need to remind him where his intelligence was in the grand scheme of things.

But people say things around morons sometimes, so he resorted to glaring sullenly at them and not fighting the accusation. Instead, he huffed, “So, I suppose you’ve got this all figured out then? I mean, there’s got to be a reason you’ve kept us alive.”

Murphy laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close. “You know, I don’t actually know much of the plan. Better that way. Surprises all around.”

Murphy’s phone rang—blaring Billie Piper’s “Because We Want to.”

“Really?” Greg asked. “That?”

With a glare, Murphy took a few steps back and answered the phone. “Yeah, boss. Yeah, boss, followed right down to the instruction. Yeah, boss.” And with that the phone call was over.

Murphy came close again and shoved the hood back down over Greg’s head.

No point getting worked up, but he could see about these handcuffs. There was a trick to getting them undone.

***

They had tied Sherlock’s wrists above his head and had him suspended to that fraction where the tips of his toes scuffed the ground while allowing him no purchase. Yet, he wasn’t dead. This place smelled of concrete and oils, though those were ancient things. Abandoned factory then. Cleared out too and vacated for a decent length of time, for dust was stronger than anything else.

Of course he had plenty of visual clues to that effect as well. This room had been an office once upon a time. The floor still bore the scrapes of the metal furniture that had been used. However, that window—two-way mirror, actually—was a new addition. The caulking had dried three, no two days ago. Someone had replaced the doorknobs from the original, but had still chosen old locks.

A lack of sound in this room. Lack of sunlight as well, though there was some out in the room on the other side of the glass. Sherlock was faced towards that room. Someone obviously wanted him to see something.

In the other room was a man with a hood on over his head handcuffed and bound to a metal chair. Sherlock could just make out John’s form beyond the first man. Why kidnap John, himself, and this stranger? What did they all have in common?

Ryan Murphy, leader of the infamous gang—puppet leader, actually, but Sherlock hadn’t found the right evidence to prove that theory yet—the ‘Murphy boys,’ strode out from the shadows and up to the hooded man. When he yanked off the hood, Sherlock nearly kicked himself. Of course, _Lestrade_. The Murphy boys had kidnapped the people who had so publicly shamed them, though they must not have paid attention to the finer details. For once, DI Donavon had provided a significant contribution to the case. _Or perhaps this isn’t really about the Murphy boys at all._

Murphy and Lestrade began conversing, but unfortunately Lestrade only confirmed what Sherlock had already figured out—Murphy was merely a knight in this game, not the king. When Murphy broke away for a phone call, the hood was shoved back over Lestrade’s head. Why bother keeping in him the dark? Prevent him from seeing that John was tied to a chair behind him? But Lestrade wasn’t gagged, he could simply verbally communicate. No, the only reasons to restrict vision were to intimidate or conceal details. Considering his position—strapped up with a full view of the room—intimidation seemed the most likely route.

Nothing in the inspector’s body language suggested that this fear tactic was working. Sherlock grinned slightly. Lestrade may be many things, but coward wasn’t one of them. Whoever had taken them had clearly not done enough research. They knew how and when to grab them, but apparently not what to do after. What was the point here? Humiliation? Retaliation? Leverage? Leverage against what?

Sherlock tipped his head back. Yes, of course. _Leverage_. Murphy’s Boys had their hands in far-reaching enterprises and the ‘Red Hand’ murders had been attempts to increase that influence in London by suppressing other gangs. Their globally minded boss hadn’t appreciated light being brought to such affairs. Who affected international affairs and would hate to see Sherlock or Lestrade harmed? Why, only one of the most powerful people in British politics and skullduggery. _Mycroft Holmes_.

That chain of logic didn’t include John’s capture. Another small puzzle piece and honestly too simple once he addressed it. Besides Mycroft, John would be the first to notice Sherlock’s absence and these days they were rarely seen in public without the other. With John’s record, one could easily assume that the doctor wouldn’t quietly wait at home for his boyfriend’s reappearance. His bloody blog would confirm that.

Fascinating, but what he needed to do was find a way out. He had to escape before Mycroft found them or the sheer amount of ‘oh but I _saved_ you, dear brother’ would drive him mad.

If he could gain some leverage, he should be able to slide his bound wrists off this hook. After that, he’d pick the lock of the room with—well, he’d find something. Perhaps the door wasn’t even locked. One could assume, but he had no definite proof until he tried it.

However, he’d already reached the first flaw of his plan. He didn’t have purchase on the ground and he couldn’t manage to jump or even push him self up enough to matter. Second option: use his strength to bring the rope down harshly and cut it that way, or maybe squeeze his hands out. Sherlock dragged his weight down, only pinching his hands. Whoever had secured them wasn’t a complete moron. Pity.

Murphy entered Sherlock’s room with two goons flanking him. The rather large men went to separate corners while Murphy approached Sherlock.

 _An excellent opportunity for data collection._ Sherlock gave Murphy his best smug smile—the one which John scolded him for using in public—and said, “The trained mutt finally makes an appearance.”

Murphy scowled. Sherlock watched for any sign of the man’s true feelings. Resentment? Annoyance? He’d have to keep pressing to learn more details. Especially since Murphy became smug as he slipped his hands into his coat pocket. “I’ve been sent to get a phone number from you.”

“He doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, or anyone really,” Sherlock said flippantly. “And you hardly need a number to get his attention.”

“He won’t care about his baby brother and his lover?” 

“Oh, he’ll care. You’ll find all your men dead shortly after he discovers this location. But he won’t be intimidated or meet any of your demands.”

“Is that supposed to be ‘let us go or you’ll be sorry?’”

“Look at you, using that tiny little mind of yours.”

Murphy reddened in anger. Pride was an important factor to the man. “You going to give us a number or not.”

“I thought the ‘not’ was obvious.”

“Right. Okay, boys. Just don’t break his nose. I’ll be back in a bit.” Murphy left the room, still looking vastly annoyed.

The ‘boys’ began to close in from either side. Clenched fists, accelerated breathing, small grins. Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared himself for a beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in updating. Thank you for the encouragement. Hopefully the next chapter won't take me as long!


	4. Chapter 4

John had a cotton gag in his mouth, a hood over his face, his arms wrenched behind him and handcuffed down to the metal chair. This wasn’t some odd experiment of Sherlock’s. Besides the obvious—anything of this nature did require permission before Sherlock began things—Sherlock had yet to involve others in this kind of play. Or actual kidnapping. Mycroft was a more likely suspect, but he tended to be a gentleman about this sort of thing. He didn’t employ thugs to grab him off the street. At least, so far he hadn’t.

No, this was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.

John’s head ached from the blow and he had a bit of trouble breathing through the hood. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any damn leverage to remove the thing. It was on enough that his attempts to waggle it off weren’t working.

Then Lestrade began talking. John stilled and listened. Ah, the Murphy boys. Great! Nothing like getting kidnapped by an angry gang. In all likelihood, they were about to be the gang’s next victims.

Wait, hold on, they had never bothered restraining anyone before. _So if they wanted us dead, we’d be dead_. What could they be after? And hang on, why wasn’t Lestrade gagged? Did they have Sherlock? Blast this stupid hood over his eyes.

John tugged on the cuffs again. No chance of slipping these, unless he wanted to dislocate his thumb to get out of this. Situation wasn’t that dire yet. For some reason, the gang wanted them alive. He’d have to wait and bide his time.

Only the longer the seconds ticked by, the more anxious he became. The conversation between some man and Lestrade ended, Lestrade coming to many of the same conclusions as John but not asking nearly enough questions to help him figure things out. And what sort of criminal mastermind would use Billie Piper as a ringtone?

More minutes went past. And more. Lestrade was trying his cuffs again too, making for more noise clanking and grunting. John wished he’d stop wasting energy. They’d need it for when they had a chance to move.

Footsteps scrapped across the floor. What was that noise? Concrete. Yes. Had to be a concrete floor. A heavy hand clamped down on John’s shoulder and the hood was wrenched away. John had to blink, even in the pale afternoon sunlight. They had to be in an old factory from the look of things. Abandoned a few years now. They might still be in London, but no way to tell with all the low windows boarded up.

The man hovering over him had a gruff look and rough fingers. He yanked the gag from John’s mouth.

“Whatever you want, this isn’t the way to get it,” John said.

“This is exactly how.” The man motioned to someone off to the side.

Two thugs came up and John steeled himself for inevitable beating. He took a deep breath, flinched when they got within range, and then cracked open an eye when no one hit him. Instead, the thugs grabbed the chair and lifted. They spun him ‘round and set him back down.

Beyond the glass, in a small former office, Sherlock was roped up. His hands bound, they must have had him off the floor by a few inches. Enough to be a problem. And worse, more of the Murphy boys gang was beating on him.

John tried to yank his wrists free, but only succeeded in bruising and creating a loud noise. “Let him go!”

The man leaned in close and John finally realized where he’d seen this bastard’s face before. In mugshots. Ryan Murphy. “I’d be more than happy to stop what’s happening in that other room. If you give me a phone number.”

“What number?”

“Mycroft Holmes. His number.”

“ _Mycroft_?” John repeated. And then stared up at Murphy in confusion. He shook his head. “I don’t have a number.”

“We know you’re in contact with him. So give up the number and we stop hurting your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a number!”

“You’ve spoken to him.”

“He sends a limousine! I don’t talk to him on the phone.”

Murphy leaned in close. His breath reeked of a decayed tooth and onions. “I don’t buy that. You have.”

“It’s Mycroft Holmes. He might’ve called me but I don’t know what the number is and if he did manage to leave some form of contact with me, it’d be changed by now. The likelihood that you managed to grab me off the middle of a street in London without his cameras catching me is non-existent. You want him to know you’ve got me and the others? He _knows_. So stop hurting Sherlock!”

Murphy straightened, though that smug grin on his face wasn’t a good thing. He snapped his fingers and one of the thugs went off to the other room. “That’s step one of what we want.”

“And what’s step two?” John snarled.

“We’ll have to see if it works out. If not, well, you’ll be the first to know.” Murphy slapped John’s face a couple of times before walking away. He disappeared off to some other room while the thug stepped back a few feet. The other thug went into the room where they were holding Sherlock and the beating stopped. Two of them came back to guard their room while one stayed with Sherlock.

Didn’t look like there were any other cameras or recording devices in the room. If John rocked enough, he could, yep. He wasted some energy hopping the chair closer to Lestrade. “You all right?”

“Fine. You?” Lestrade said.

“Fine.”

“Don’t know what they’re planning, but we’ve got to get out of here,” John said.

“I’d think that would be obvious.” Lestrade grunted and the cuffs clinked again. “Damn things are too tight. Yours.”

“Done well.” John nodded at the edge of the room. “Plus we’ve got our watchers. What do you think they’re really after?”

Lestrade lowered his voice so soft John almost didn’t hear him. “They’re aiming to put a bullet in Mycroft’s head.”

A laugh threatened to bubble out of John’s mouth, but he kept it to a big smile instead. “Well that won’t work. He’d never show his face. He’d send, I don’t know, a group of special ops guys before he’d get his hands dirty.”

“He might for the right people. If they were in jeopardy.”

“They’d have to send a message then.” John sobered up incredibly at that thought. Situation was worse than he’d allowed himself to believe. “Killing one of us would do it.”

“Seems to be their plan.”

“Why start with me though? That is what they were implying.”

“You’re the spare.”

“Me?” John seriously considered dislocating his thumb now. If only they didn’t have that many thugs watching them, and who knew how many more on the perimeter? “How am I the spare? Why would I be the first to go? You’re just a cop.”

Lestrade snorted and glared at him. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“They only nabbed you so you couldn’t warn Mycroft before they were ready.”

“How could he possibly tell me that when he’s been locked in there and I’ve been out here?” John said.

“Got ahead of myself.” Lestrade grinned. “I’m surprised Sherlock wasn’t gloating and telling everyone he figured it out.”

“Figured out what?” John demanded.

“I’m fucking Mycroft.”

John blinked. He frowned. His brow pinched together and he shook his head. Ah, no, nope. That didn’t make any sense right away. If he thought about it, nope. He opened his mouth, he closed it again. Scowled. “You’re sleeping with Mycroft _Holmes_?”

“And you’re sleeping with his brother.”

John cleared his throat. “And how on Earth do you know that?”

“Ha! So I’m right.” Lestrade’s grin broadened. “Looks like Donovan owes me twenty quid.”

John rattled the handcuffs for good measure. “Assuming we get out of here.”

“Right.”

“Any ideas?”

“If I pop something out of place, how long will it take you to put it back in?” Lestrade asked.

“We’ll have the thugs on us in seconds, so probably not for a while.”

“Damn. Not a good idea then.”

“Definitely not.”

“We’ll have to wait and play our cards at the right time then.” Lestrade glanced around.

John did the same and didn’t see that anything had changed in their favor. Okay, they were stuck where they were. Damn. Hopefully one of the Holmes brothers came up with something. Otherwise, he was a very dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random update is random. Thanks to everyone who's happened by in the meantime. Keep your fingers crossed that the next installment won't take me so long.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft Holmes was _not_ amused. He clicked back on the camera footage and watched the scene play out again. John Watson walked down the street until he was accosted by men in a black van. Unfortunately, the van managed to slip between a few security cameras and disappear into the London traffic. More likely, this team of professionals had a talented hacker. With a few keystrokes, Mycroft set several of his own onto locating potential disturbances in the cyberforce. They should have been doing that anyway, but unfortunately, people were so frequently _lazy_. If any of them had been, they’d quickly discover they’d be waking up in jail cells the rest of their lives.

About ten minutes later, one of the data analysts sent him footage with a long apology. Lestrade being dragged out between two people. Another of a glimpse outside 221B Baker Street where Sherlock was also removed from his home. The analyst shouldn’t have bothered with the apology since that had only delayed the information. A stern reprimand was inbound for that misconduct.

Distance, he was mentally keeping his distance. But if he didn’t at this point, he was going to lose his temper, and _that_ would prevent him from putting together the pieces and solving this problem before everyone wound up dead. The dead flight was still fresh in his mind. He didn’t need another massive loss.

And he certainly didn’t want to risk such a huge _personal_ loss.

He scrolled through some camera footage himself, not trusting anyone to tell him about Sherlock, even though several people were specifically designated to that task. And lo and behold, they hadn’t seen that the cameras had been time lapsed. “Althea.”

“Yeah, boss?” Althea said, sitting in her usual chair in the corner of his office. She had her eyes on her phone, hardly risking a glance up as she thumbed her way through more internet information. Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook—all important intelligence gathering tools, and all too time consuming for Mycroft to delve into. But Althea was a pro at it.

“Seems my brother, his boyfriend, and mine have been kidnapped. Any idea on who?”

“Don’t have much on specific references. Couple of the Murphy boys have been yelling about bringing down the government, but that’s expected because of the arrest. Militants and other gangs seem to be in their normal ranges. Not seeing a spike on the organized terrorists or criminals either.” Althea frowned. “In fact, they’ve been oddly quiet last couple of weeks.”

“Like they were before Moriarty drew Sherlock into that game with explosives.” Mycroft frowned. “I don’t like this.”

“Who do you think it is, boss?”

“Probably that Murphy gang. This is too neatly timed.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair.

“Going to call in a team?”

“I don’t have a location yet.”

Althea nearly dropped her phone. “You don’t—is there something I should be checking?”

“Keep tabs on our digitally inclined friends. Let me know if any of them waiver in their duties.”

“Yes, boss.”

So they began to work. Mycroft went delving into the Murphy boys’ financials, anything that would be a crumb to a location, but unfortunately the team was good at what they did. Too good. They hadn’t shown this kind of proficiency before or Mycroft would have kept a closer eye on them. He’d suspected that they’d had someone else backing them, but here was the proof. Or rather, the lack of proof was proof in this case. He should have been able to find them. His brow pinched, almost showing that nervousness. This was more than problematic. Hiding affairs to this degree was the sign of an intelligent mind and worse, an actual design.

“Got a Murphy boy on a geo-ping somewhere odd, boss,” Althea said.

“Show me.”

They pulled up maps and Althea pointed to an abandoned factory. “Boy’s never been there before today.”

Mycroft did a quick scan for other mobile phones in the area, but nothing cropped up. The nothing was more telling than not. A few searches made it obvious that the boy went nowhere alone. “He’s a moron. Send a team to investigate. Stress that they aren’t to be seen. I want more information before they engage.”

“Yeah, boss.” Althea reclaimed her seat and continued skimming through her social media websites.

This news was both good and bad. At least he had somewhere to direct his search. Unfortunately, someone had already gotten to the cameras around the factory. Everything was shut off, or closed to him. He had the sneaky suspicion someone had rerouted the CCTV in the area to a different server. Mycroft leaned back in his chair. The Murphy boys were dumb, someone had told them to do this. Someone who clearly wanted Mycroft’s attention or they would have allowed the gang to have their revenge.

This was an _attack_. On _him._ After the dead flight, after the other minutia that had cropped up over the last few weeks, someone wanted his attention. Who? He knew all the players and everyone was calm lately, or at least reacting within predictable patterns.

“Boss?” Althea raised her eyes from her phone. Oh, he did not like the worry that he saw there. “One of our hackers caught someone attempting to push through the firewall. They stopped the virus, but there was a message attached. Hacker’s checking it.”

“Have it sent through once it’s clean.”

Agonizing seconds ticked by, which was more than enough time for Mycroft to comb through the abundant information in his mind. He dismissed as much as possible, but there had been a pattern hidden in the limited chaos. He would have spotted it long ago. Yes, gangs becoming that degree more organized. They went through those phases, one reason why he had supported Lestrade’s decision to bring Sherlock in on the Red Hand case. Obviously the Murphy Boys had been behind it. There had been no reason to convince Scotland Yard to give Sherlock access to those scenes except as an attempt to expose this mysterious player behind the scenes.

Sending in his brother had been foolish pride. Sherlock had more than proven his intelligence years ago, but he seemed so much more capable in other realms. Perhaps Mycroft had been buying into Dr. Watson’s narrative too much. The Sherlock Holmes of Dr. Watson’s blog would never have been captured like this. Or perhaps he could be.

Musing on fiction was simply another distancing tactic. Mycroft cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the reports filling his inbox. The world would not stop because people he cared about were in danger. In fact, if he was planning a move against another party, this would be the opportune time to slide another operation past the target’s attention. Worked marvelously against a few of the CIA operatives he’d needed to deceive.

Ah ha. There. An unscheduled shipment of seemingly benign medical supplies. No one ever had occasion for that many plastic gloves. Mycroft snooped a little more, sent an agent off to investigate. However, nothing else was needing his attention this moment. He cleared his throat.

“Vid’s incoming, boss,” Althea said.

His patience was sorely tested already. Fortunately the email arrived before he needed to hack the hacker’s computer. After one last check for viruses, he opened it, already putting on his best calm mask. And oh, was he glad that he had, for the video, which had clearly been taken in the last hour, showed men beating up his brother. Sherlock displayed no signs of fear or even concern. In fact, Mycroft was willing to bet that Sherlock was observing, scheming his way out of this room. Good.

However, the next shot robbed Mycroft of the special bubble of hope and pride. John and Greg were tied down to chairs, and there didn’t seem to be much they could do to change that, especially since a few meaty thugs were standing guard. Both of them were likely scheming too—John was obvious _as always_. Greg though, he could be more sly than either of the Holmes boys. Perhaps because Greg still managed to surprise himself, he was not quite as predictable as everyone else was led to believe by his charm.

Yes, for the moment, they were all relatively fine, but the threat of violence was there. Mycroft had seen more persuasive tactics and did anyone believe he would be so easily lured into rash behavior from this video? “Althea, have the hacker—”

“Back trace the video for a location, you don’t care how long it takes or how many countries it pings to?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said distractedly. He leaned forward and watched the video again. There. A fraction of a second. Someone had put in a black background. White words appeared in another fraction of a second.

HOW OBSERVANT ARE YOU?

Another, this time with an address in Whitechapel. Mycroft went back to his surveillance feeds, but the corner described had no cameras. Other angles revealed that these had been broken.

Mycroft leaned back and steepled his fingers. Obviously this was a trap. Only a fool would go himself when he had a plethora of agents to put into the field. But none of them were the target. This mastermind may have constructed something only Mycroft could see. Likely, the violence would increase against the hostages if anyone else snooped around. He rose from his chair and Althea did the same. “No, you’re staying here.”

Althea’s eyes went wide, but like the good soldier, she didn’t question the order. “What do you need me to do?”

“Exactly what you have been. I want an update with the team’s information on that Murphy boy location. If I’m not back in the next hour, you know what to do.”

Althea’s eyes flicked to a cabinet on the far wall. She gave one tight nod.

Mycroft put on his coat and grabbed his umbrella. Time to see who so badly wanted a chat.


End file.
